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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26091919">Our mind unravels through a glance at our eyes, and if you may, let me cry.</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/SfrogPlus/pseuds/SfrogPlus'>SfrogPlus</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Posting Letter [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Bad Poetry, Complicated Relationships, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Healing, I'm Bad At Titles, M/M, Mental Instability, Panic Attacks, Post-Game(s), Sharing a Bed, Waffles, Weird Plot Shit, Why Did I Write This?</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 04:26:47</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,930</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26091919</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/SfrogPlus/pseuds/SfrogPlus</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Healing, is different for everyone,  Kamukura supposes, red and ivory eyes glancing at the bodies.</p><p>He pulls out more paper and watches through a camera's lens, the healing of Shuichi Saihara and Kokichi.</p><p> </p><p>  <em> In other words my writing sucks and I'm trying to sound poetic but then my cat falls on me and <b>CHOMP</b>  on me hair. Yeet.</em></p><p>Update. The title doenst make sense. Don't read it. Read summary. Or read it and be a total legend. Well, you're a flipping legend either way so</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Oma Kokichi/Saihara Shuichi</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Posting Letter [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1720597</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>42</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Our mind unravels through a glance at our eyes, and if you may, let me cry.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I'm sorry that I made a sequel to my really, really bad story that I gifted to the amazing, the best, and great person called Auppexx. And I'm sorry that the sequel is really bad as well.</p><p>And they! Why didn't anyone roast me about how bad my other story was and the spelling errors? I'm not even sure what some of the corrections should be made to be replaced with that's how bad it is. </p><p>Also shout-out to Sunflower_8, who really inspired me. Their writing is so flipping bloody cool and hey! If you like angst and Komaeda, then you should totally check them out. I'm on my way to kudos-ing almost all their works.</p><p>Okay now I got all the serious stuff out the way time to meme on end-notes</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <hr/><p>
  <span>The memories I hold</span>
</p><p>
  <span>From the cold December</span>
</p><p>
  <span>when we were alone</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Makes me burn into flames.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> Saihara is healing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> The process is cold, so very cold, and suddenly he can't breath when he looks at Akamatsu's face, or he can't stop thinking about the way Tojo came to her end, clothes torn and dignity lost, pink splattered like paint on Yonaga's skin where the tag reads </span>
  <em>
    <span>"toxic" </span>
  </em>
  <span>and everybody cares but never enough. It's cold, not like an evening sky and after you get inside it feels so very, very, very warm, but like harsh winds in sharp icicles collapsing down on your mind and thoughts and there's no escape, starving, alone, you just want to die.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> Saihara wonders, sometimes, when he's so very quiet and the air he breathes feels like fire, when the grass is being replaced by flowers and it's living, living in such a topless place, he wonders about that smile on Ouma's face and how perfect, always perfect, it seems, the way he would lie and lie and lie and be so tiresome and fake and real that Saihara just wanted to leave and go away, that twist in his heart when he saw Ouma for the last time, a sour taste on his tongue when there's a bottle missing in his lab. </span>
</p><p>
  <span> The bottles from before are still there. </span>
</p><p>
  <span> Saihara tried to poison himself once, to see what everyone felt in their last moments, to feel </span>
  <em>
    <span>okay, okay </span>
  </em>
  <span>even though he knew it was wrong selfish of him, to want to die and be hurt and want to cry and not solve and solve and </span>
  <em>
    <span>solve. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He bailed out in the end, something cold in the air even though it was summer, warm and humid, and he wishes he could die. He doesn't, of course, but there's another shelved memory for himself and himself only.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> Other times, late at night, after Harukawa and Momota gather up in quiet respect, after crying and yelling and holding each other tight with Saihara watching, always watching in the quiet buzzing noises of a cicada not far off, the moon up high and stars matching the ones that used to be in Ouma's eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> He thinks, very quietly, about how the frigid cold makes him want to hang himself with his own hands, and without thinking, there's a key in his hand and the quiet breaths of Ouma, slow and steady, alive, still alive, and Saihara wants to stare at the disheveled way his hair levels out, layer on a pillow so carefully that he looks like porcelain glass, eyebags dark. It's warm, Saihara finds. So very, very warm now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> The mornings are slow, almost melancholic, no morning wake-ups, no loud music from obnoxious bears from a killing game where Saihara has thought too many times of just dying. He can't, because that would be a burden. A burden. Saihara needs to stop thinking so much.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> Akamatsu greets him with a smile, forced, her face pale. Saihara nods, not quite looking her way, and listens to the quiet mutters she speaks nowadays, something purple, something blue, something not quite right with the way she feels. Homesick, is a solution. Wanting to die and live and leave and escape this place, is not. They both silently decide it's the second.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> Momota is loud, Harukawa is quiet, Amami is calm. It's a cover, though, Saihara knows. Pretending that they're fine. Pretending that nothing ever happened and that Momota is still so obnoxiously loud and Harukawa is cold and sharp like a knife and Amami is still so peacefully knowing, always knowing. At least they're making progress.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> Breakfast, is faster, people coming in and out and listening ever-so-carefully for the noise of laughter, a black and white bear at the glimpse of their eye, an announcement</span>
  <span>— anything, anything to tell them that there is a way to leave. But they want to stay here, with each other, in the peace. They know that when they leave, if they leave, it'll riot.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> Gokuhara says something about Ouma. Ouma isn't here. Ouma… is not here.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> Ouma is not here and </span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh my god where is he dying is he okay is he alright I need to find him Ouma might hang himself or faint again </span>
  </em>
  <span>and there's a feeling in Saihara's stomach that makes him want to vomit blood and flowers and hopes and dreams and all his thoughts down onto a piece of paper but he can't because logic rules over.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> He stands up and</span>
</p><p>
  <span> He leaves. Saihara leaves because he doesn't want to feel cold anymore, he wants to get it over with and— Saihara doesn't know what he wants. Saihara wants</span>
</p><p>
  <span> He wants to.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> He wants to feel warm.</span>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>I hold close in a truth</span>
</p><p>
  <span>a feeling dear in a lie</span>
</p><p>
  <span>and almost every day</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I want to die.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> Ouma is healing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> The process is despicable long, boring like watching the cement flakes on the third corridor, first floor of the fake academy fall. Dreary, Ouma thinks, as he runs his finger on the floor, kneeling with his legs close to his chest. It's amusing, Ouma remembers thinking one time, it's amusing how they seem so small when they fall, dropping far, far, far to the ground.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> There are steps approaching him. Small, quiet steps. Like the person causing them is trying to sneak up on him. It's failing, but not quite. Ouma gives an empty stare at his finger, coated in what appears to be dust, though one couldn't be sure, before wiping it on his shirt, as white and pale as his skin, fake memories mixed with real a little too heavy in his mind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> A tap on the shoulder, Ouma glances over his shoulder, looking up. He's frowning, the person there, eyes coated with a look Ouma can't quite portray himself, like he's accepted a fate no one knows, that no one cares about, but it's too weighted and much too heavy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> Long eyelashes, a yellow tint in his eyes, a stiff posture with a white button-up, sleeves rolled up in the hot summer, and striped pants. Saihara, still standing, with that now piercing gaze that throws everyone a little off. He changed when the game ended. Hollow. Cold. Though Ouma wasn't any better. He's healing though; Slowly, still scarred for life.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> Everyone here was though. They're healed, accepting their fate. A fate made by God's hand</span>
  <span>— Ouma guesses that Yonaga's god didn't favour her enough. He would laugh at that inside joke, look like a maniac in front of Saihara, but he can't. </span>
</p><p>
  <span> Saihara's eyes shift around to Ouma's finger, coated with dust. They don't smile, only stare at each other before Ouma stands, straight and small, fidgeting with a checkered scarf stuck onto him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> Saihara speaks, after a long minute of silence, small steps tapping on the floor, "It's lunch time. Y-You didn't come out for a while and I was—" He pauses, repeating his words, "It's lunch time."</span>
</p><p>
  <span> Ouma stuffs his hands behind his head, shuffling until they find the right place. Ouma doesn't feel dizzy when sitting up anymore, a taste of nausea spreading through his body. He doesn't get weird dreams that seem an ounce too real that it makes Ouma laugh and laugh until he's crying. He's started eating regularly again, though the first times made him feel sick. </span>
</p><p>
  <span> He's healing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> "Nice." Ouma says, short and simple. He feels panicked for some reason, when he says it, but he doesn't know why. It's normal. Normal. He opens his mouth, trying to say the words, </span>
  <em>
    <span>I've been getting hungry! Though that's a lie.</span>
  </em>
  <span> But when it's at the tip of his tongue, he chokes up, something dripping down his face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> Ouma's crying. But that's fine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> He's healing, and the process hurts, like the profile of blood when he reaches to touch a sharp piece of a cement flake. The process is slow and painful, but when Saihara reaches out for his hand, fingers knitting around each other too tight, Ouma's breathing slows and the tears feel warm.</span>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>And with the touch of your skin</span>
</p><p>
  <span>and a drop of your blood</span>
</p><p>
  <span>heavy under crushed</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I find a feeling that goes so cold.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Ouma is warm, so very warm that he seeps into Saihara's skin like melting wax, dripping slowly into his mindful perplexes. His fingers want to snap apart yet stay like this, burn and freeze, something blue and something red. Purple, is a pretty color.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Saihara wonders what his lips would feel like, chapped and bloody, if Saihara goes to lean lower, a little too close, a little closer, and let them touch. He wonders, how it would be, to kneel down and wrap his lengthy arms around the smaller one, and let his tongue roam the other's. Saihara wonders, how it would feel if he could stop those tears of Ouma.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ouma is here with him, wiping tears and sniffling and not making a single noise. Ouma leans forward, to Saihara's hand, and let's his face rest on the backside. A second. Two. Three. Four.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sixteenth minutes pass before Ouma stops crying, forcing a wide smile to his face and with tears in the side of his eyes, he says in that cheery voice of his, "Love you, Shumai."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Saihara feels warm inside, and so very, very painful. He thinks, after all this, that this must be what it feels to die.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He ultimately decides that he wouldn't mind.</span>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>Eyes watching, flashing lights</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something checkered, in the sky</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I'm not a lie, I swear</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Though then again, all I do is hide.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> Pinkies wrap around each other, Tojo is kneeling with her straight up looking at Ouma, Ouma is sitting in the stiff chair in the dining room, heading down to his lap filled with white, where memories the announcements were held, keys and strange objects given for a source for murder probability. </span>
</p><p>
  <span> It's too late for lunch, but everyone is here, crowded in a delirious room and quietly muttering. Ouma doesn't search for Saihara, or Amami, and his gaze on Gokuhara hasn't quite fit right with him. The Supreme Leader doesn't need to search for anyone. The Supreme Leader doesn't want to search for anyone. The Supreme Leader feels another tear slip by.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> Tojo's voice is quiet, calming, but so very panicked. Something about that makes Ouma feel his stomach tighten in a sickening way, like he's watching her murder again. There's always that look in her eyes after that. "What do you want, Ouma?" She's asking what he wants for lunch. He can do this. Because it's the only thing he can do.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> Ouma's voice sounds shaky, like he's some unstable piece of shit and not who DICE made him to be. "I want—" He gets sick of his own voice before he can even finish the sentence, voice fading. He swears, swears to god, he's okay. He's becoming better now. He's going to be fine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> "No." Tojo denies, removing her hand from his. She isn't smiling or frowning; that peculiar professional face glued on. "</span>
  <em>
    <span>No.</span>
  </em>
  <span>" There's a look of panic in her eyes again, flashing around. And Ouma decides not to speak anymore. "What do you want?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span> Ouma can't answer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> "I-I'm sorry, I…" Tojo shuts her eyes, like there would be something different, somewhere else, in a different situation. Where she would be okay. Ouma understands that. They all do.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> Tojo leaves in silence, steps perfect, into the kitchen, poised with sweet dripping and tears running down her face as she stares straight to nowhere and nothing more. More silence follows, like Ouma did something wrong; he's always wrong. </span>
</p><p>
  <span> And when Ouma looks down at the floor, he knows it has to be because he's healing. And that's all there is to it, nothing else.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> Though that's a lie.</span>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>To wake up and find</span>
</p><p>
  <span>your shallow hot breaths</span>
</p><p>
  <span>and with a horrid cry,</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I melt alive.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> "Saiharaaaaaa…" Ouma's voice drags, tired, dreadful. Saihara finds solace in the voice, in a cold and empty and horrid place, he wonders where he's meant to go. Ouma, he ultimately decides, would know. But Saihara doesn't ask him anything, yellow eyes flickering onto a thin, pale, small hybrid of hatred and happiness and lies and lies like paper plastered for a machine. "Wanna sleep with me tonight?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span> The small accusation riddled in Saihara's mind lays bare. Something hinted, something small, and Saihara's mind drifts to something other than the high probabilities of what Ouma meant. "S-Sure." He squeaks, quick and short, as if his mouth were to stay open any longer than he might freeze alive into ice. "Sure." He repeats, for good measure.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> "What are you… What are you guys talking about?" Ah. Amami gives them a distant, tight smile, one hand waving as his eyes break into shards like glass. His head is tilted ever-so-carefully like it's about to break, and his hair is messed up and knotted. Amami laughs, because like a plastered personality, everyone remains the same. They'll be okay. "It sounds pretty suspicious, from what I've heard."</span>
</p><p>
  <span> Ouma shrugs, with lies and deceit on his shoulders as he sings words in dead tone, "You know." You know. Saihara looks away to the ground fields plucked and plummeted and growing long, the sound of an old cicada running along wood in the background. Saihara feels cold, despite the sweat running down Ouma's forehead and rolled up sleeves, and Amami's borrowed shirt from Shirogane's Ultimate room growing duty back on the high floor of the school building.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> He feels empty. And he can't seem to grasp why, but he'll figure it out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> "You know." Ouma repeats with a carefree, always bored tone, and a finger taps at the veins pumping blood through Saihara's arm, small and curling like a lying snake. Saihara glances at Ouma. Ouma is staring at Amami, something mixed and strange and distant in his eyes as a smile comes to his face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span> "You know?" Amami repeats with a friendly, tilted up smile. His lips are chapped. His eyes are red. His smile is still like a broken picture frame. "You two all make a great couple though, even if you don't want to tell me. "It must have been hard to be the first to die.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> It was hard for Saihara to be the last. Memories of shocks of pain run down It is memory like a river of tranquilness, poisoned at the seams. He hasn't told anyone yet, and he doubts Harukawa and Yumeno remember. </span>
</p><p>
  <span> Only the last to live always remembers. The details, left alone, but the old rusty door to the attic in which holds his death creeps into like a cold, frigid blizzard.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> "W-We… We a-aren't." Saihara says, hand pulling away from Ouma's, and he feels sick, imagining something warm, burning into his skin. It's fake, he knows, the heightened sense of fear in his mind, but when you're standing so close to someone like Ouma—</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span> (Get away get away get away get away you're burning me alive)</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span> It suddenly feels like everything is on flames. And Saihara feels sweat dribble down his chin. It's too warm, he decides, as he tugs on his sleeves. Amami nods in comprehension, "Ah. Too bad. Well then, bye." And with every further step, Saihara can hear in the clouded air, that there's something wrong with the way Ouma is breathing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> He does not question though, because it's an unspoken rule to not, through pains and tears and blood and too many thoughts alone. Quietly, Saihara wonders if Ouma regrets talking to him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> Saihara shakes his head and grabs Ouma's hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> He finds very pleasantly, that it is warmer than the air, and when Ouma silently tightens his fingers around Saihara's, Saihara feels a little better.</span>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>If there was a point, then</span>
</p><p>
  <span>would I really know?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If there was a point</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To all this lying— I suppose.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> Some days, Ouma finds, that solace lies in the heart of nowhere, and nowhere shall it remain. Some days, he finds, he's surrounded by lies and lies and lies. Some days, he wonders when the end will come. </span>
</p><p>
  <span> It— It isn't humane. Like rats, in a never-ending maze. Trapped in a place without human contact. </span>
  <em>
    <span>(Ouma wonders if he deserves it) </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span> (Ouma wonders if he matters at all)</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span> His blood doesn't satiate for pain, he knows, and the mind weaves thoughts that make him stare at purple blown eyes, heavy and skin pale, a monster behind what appears like a mirror. He stares and stares, a scratch on his cheek from when he went to the forest, a large cut on his arm from when he was thinking too hard, dried blood on his fingers that seems there but isn't; it never is. And as he washes his hands, combing water at the edges, the blood and scratches and cuts and gashes taste like lies that only he can see.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> He looks away from the mirror, because it's only a lie, </span>
  <em>
    <span>only a lie,</span>
  </em>
  <span> something mixing like a concoction in his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> That doesn't make it less painful. </span>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>I find, too long from time extracted</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A silence shall remain there </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In my mind, hot and cold, so many lies</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I find, you right by my side.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"And I wonder, why you lie"</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> Saihara waits outside the door, a small silver key in one hand and in the other, lips sealed tight, dry, as he can hear the quiet sounds of breaths and silent sobbing. It wasn't particularly late in the night, but so that almost everyone was asleep by now, and only the few like Tojo, Harukawa, and Amami would be awake.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> With a startled shake, Saihara sighs, before unlocking the door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> Detectives were never meant to ask permission, due to the government law proving them to break entry. Saihara is really, just applying the same rules here. It feels wrong, he notices. </span>
</p><p>
  <span> It feels cold.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> The room is dark, the only dim lighting, glowing orange above the bed, Ouma curled up like a frightened cat. Tears roll down his cheeks, and Ouma looks up, purple eyes going wide, a look of fear, confusion and then betrayal.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> Saihara still believes he made the right choice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> (But really, in the end, is there any right choice? Everything seems so hollow now. Empty. These days, he wonders if they will ever leave this place. Who they even are. It was never clear even until the end.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span> "A-Ah… Erm… I-I—" Saihara's words seem to fail him, fading like the daily letters from the mailbox room over the bridge. He tries again, but Ouma interrupts him before he can open his mouth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> "Shut up!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span> Sahara shuts up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> "Can't you just go away!?" He shouts, in a broken and hung up voice, standing up. "Go! Away!" Saihara wishes he could, he really does. Saihara wishes he could just leave and take a break from whatever— wherever, from this strange, overwhelming hellhole he's supposed to call home, where he watched teenagers get murdered, for God's sake.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> "I'm sorry…—"</span>
</p><p>
  <span> Ouma groans underneath his breath, sighing as though he was frustrated. Sahara thinks they all were. He couldn't tell if he was getting better, or if his energy was slowly draining from being here. He stopped guessing after the first month. "Just leave."</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span> Just leave.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span> Saihara sometimes thinks about the time he was on the school's roof. When he shuts his eyes, memories flood back like rivers. He wishes they wouldn't, because the river was a hazy, broken up into parts, and slowly, like a river, fading away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> When he shuts his eyes...</span>
</p><p>
  <span> He was on it once.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> Twice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> Three steps closer to the edge.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> By the fourth, Saihara thinks he turned back, or maybe he jumped off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> Or maybe it was a dream.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> Or maybe a stimulation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> He can't remember.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> "I can't." Because the cold seeps into his skin and reeks of despair, slowly and carefully marking into his lungs like the hatred he remembers feeling once, for himself and Team Danganronpa. Saihara opens his eyes, because he can't remember when he stopped hating them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> Saihara wonders when he started feeling so hollow. Though he supposes, healing was never clean, but rather like a body of a victim; dead, painful, and cold.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> Ouma stopped talking a while ago, words replaced with tears. Eventually—</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span> Eventually what?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span> Eventually…</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span> I feel sick.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span> Eventually…</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span> Am I healed yet?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span> Eventually, Saihara's arms find their way around Ouma, his white button-up shirt drinking in Ouma's tears (God frog, that's a weird sentence). They stay in silence for a while, and Saihara can't remember which one of them asked, but one of them did.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span> "May I kiss you?"</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span> Ouma is warm, like fire.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> Saihara wonders if it's too much to want to burn near him, to let his skin char in Ouma's horrid lies that he knows, because he just </span>
  <em>
    <span>does, </span>
  </em>
  <span>that he will get bored of one day (And with a dwindle of fingers, the fates change. His present words and up as lies. The future. The future? Has yet to arrive).</span>
</p><p>
  <span> He wonders, because he wonders and wonders and wonders too much, and yet there's no answer to come, why the future seems so warm, yet so hopelessly cold.</span>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>One day at a time, </span>
</p><p>
  <span>One million lies</span>
</p><p>
  <span>One million more tries</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And let us burn for tonight</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"But I find, you're too warm tonight."</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span> Dreams are all but lies to Ouma. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span> Dreams.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span> He wishes they were dreams, but like plastic dolls, they are real.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span> It's burning</span>
  </em>
  <span>— </span>
  <em>
    <span>the school, in his dream.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span> Ouma thinks he's the one who burned it.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span> Fire.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Screaming.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span> Shouting.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span> Smoke.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span> And then when he shuts his eyes, tight, he sees</span>
  </em>
  <span>—</span>
</p><p>
  <span> "Fucking…” Ouma groaned, shuffling underneath the thin sheets of his bed, wet from sweat. It was to be expected, after all, since it was summer. Ouma knows it was somewhere in June. Or perhaps the beginning of July. He's getting better, at checking the days.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> There's something heavy resting itself around Ouma's waist, into a tight hug that feels so warm, it's almost gross. Though Ouma supposes he should just come out with it and say it is pretty gross. </span>
</p><p>
  <span> Saihara seems like he had a good rest, head relaxed into the pillow, eyelashes fluttered down, that blue hair of his awkwardly twirling at the edges and it makes Ouma smile, despite how his eyes feel dry and his lips hurt a little. It always hurts a little, but he supposes that it's fine for now.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span> Is it really?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span> "Mmn…" Saihara groans, like he's in pain. Like he's having a nightmare. That isn't abnormal, but Ouma can't help but feel something tighten around his heart. </span>
  <em>
    <span>(That's a lie) </span>
  </em>
  <span>He </span>
</p><p>
  <span> Ouma wraps his arms around Saihara, despite the gross feeling of sweat, and lets his smile grow when Saihara's eyelids slowly open, yellow pupils under grey.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> They smile at each other, in the quiet moment. A moment of chaos. A moment of peace. Ouma really… really, doesn't know anymore.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> And Ouma wonders if this is what it feels like to be healing.</span>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"But I know, from experience, we'll be okay."</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> A dream? A stimulation? Or reality?</span>
</p><p>
  <span> They all wonder, in one single thought, as they wake up from the horrid nightmares in the morning, like crystal blades edging them off a cliff, slowly, and painfully. A dream. </span>
  <em>
    <span>That's a lie.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span> A stimulation. </span>
  <em>
    <span>No, that's wrong!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span> Reality? </span>
  <em>
    <span>That can't be it… </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span> And another day goes on, the sun set ablaze onto as their food is daily replenished and the letters in the mailbox over the bridge add up.</span>
</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Okay, okay, okay. So I've been thinking, maybe I shouldn't write unplanned long-flipping-ass stories I know I won't finished, and instead <em>plan</em>. It's a great idea, right?</p><p>Yeah and that's what I'm going to do.</p><p>So I have a few one shots I'm writing right now, as well as that three shot that's cringe levels go up and up and explodes out the ceiling. </p><p>Also, I'm not quite sure what I'm doing with their series. Maybe I'll continue, maybe I won't, no promises, I don't make promises here, unless it's a fic I'm  writing for someone.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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